“Need I warn you, love, that you have a position to uphold in society now?”
Wincing at his implied criticism, she glanced back at him. “I have done nothing wrong.”
“Perhaps not, but encouraging the attentions of those wild young bucks could give the wrong impression.”
His accusation stung, yet she knew Lucian was right. She had indeed forgotten herself this afternoon. She would have to take greater care to remember the dangers of becoming too friendly with her admirers.
Squaring her shoulders, Brynn sidestepped his charge with an indirect reply. “Is there a reason you deigned to grace us with your company this afternoon, my lord?”
“Must I have a reason to return to my own home?”
“You have been here so seldom, I thought perhaps you might have one.”
“Actually I wanted to deliver an invitation to you. My great-aunt, Lady Agatha Edgecomb, is holding a garden party in our honor Saturday next.”
Brynn stared at him in surprise. “In our honor? When I first met her, Lady Agatha swore she would never acknowledge our marriage. She thinks me nothing but a tart.”
Lucian’s mouth curved dryly. “I persuaded her to reconsider. She understands she has no choice but to accept you as my wife if she doesn’t want me to cut the connection.”
“That does so relieve my mind,” Brynn said with false sincerity. “Your aunt will make such a delightful acquaintance.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed at her facetious tone, but he answered mildly, “I don’t care much for my relatives, particularly Aunt Agatha, but I trust you will behave with circumspection and give them no cause to impugn our marriage.”
Brynn smiled coolly. “They will doubtless impugn our marriage, no matter how I behave. And if you wanted a model of circumspection, you should have considered that before you wed me,” she retorted before walking from the room.
She had to pause to compose herself, however, before joining her friend. It vexed her that Lucian should take her to task for her behavior. Despite appearances, she hadn’t purposefully encouraged the reckless ardor of her admirers. A few poems were nothing compared to what had happened in the past.
Indeed, she wondered what Lucian would say if he saw gentlemen truly losing their heads over her. It would serve him right, Brynn reflected with indignation, if she allowed it to happen. Perhaps then he would believe her.
Still, she reminded herself, she wasn’t willing to risk the danger for a few moments’ satisfaction of thumbing her nose at her autocratic husband.
She was dreaming again, another dark dream of Lucian. This time the danger came not from her, hut from a man wielding a deadly rapier.
Caught off guard by the unexpected attack, Lucian leapt back, barely eluding the slashing blade. His opponent followed, thrusting viciously, a look of feral rage on his face.
Unarmed, Lucian spun away defensively, trying to avoid becoming a target in the uneven contest. When he took refuge behind a table, the man reached out and sent it thudding to the floor, then lunged again.
This time Lucian was ready. Sidestepping, he caught the hilt of the rapier and held hard, trapping the weapon between their bodies.
The man tried to wrest it free, to no avail. For an endless moment, they stood locked together, straining in a desperate struggle for control, teeth bared, breath coming harshly. Finally the man gave an anguished cry and launched himself against Lucian, throwing them both off balance. Grunting, they fell together, crashing over the table.
Instinctively Lucian rolled to one side and sprang to his feet, firmly in possession of the rapier. Yet his opponent lay there on the floor, groaning, blood seeping from a mortal wound in his chest.
Dropping the blade with a clatter, Lucian went down on his knees beside the dying man, cradling his head almost tenderly.
“Giles…” he whispered, his face taut with agony.
“Forgive me, Luce… It is better this way… Please…don’t tell…”
His last rasped words were lost in a violent fit of coughing as blood bubbled up from his throat.
Brynn came awake suddenly, her heart strangely aching for Lucian. She felt his torment, his despair, in killing his friend.
“No…!”
Hearing the muffled groan, she gave a start and turned her head on the pillow to find Lucian lying beside her. They must have both fallen asleep after he’d made love to her, she realized; her inner thighs were still wet with his seed, while her body still throbbed from his possession.
He was in the throes of a nightmare, it seemed.
Her heart wrenching with compassion, Brynn reached out to touch his shoulder-a mistake, she discovered when Lucian jolted awake. She gasped as he grasped her wrist in a fierce grip.
His blue eyes fixed wildly on her before he finally recognized his surroundings. She could see his confusion in the dim light of the bedside lamp. Usually he left her bed directly afterward.
Releasing her wrist as if burned, Lucian ran a hand roughly down his face. Then, pushing the covers away, he sat up abruptly, giving Brynn his naked back as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“Lucian,” she asked quietly, needing to know. “Who is Giles?”
He flinched visibly. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. “Who told you about Giles?”
“No one told me. I saw him in my dreams.”
His back remained so rigid, Brynn knew he didn’t believe her.
“You must be mistaken,” he said finally. “Giles is dead.”
Without another word, he rose from the bed and snatched up his robe, then crossed the bedchamber. The door shut softly behind him, leaving her alone.
Brynn lay there unmoving, her thoughts still whirling. Her dreams could be deadly premonitions, but somehow she was certain her dark images of Giles were part of Lucian’s past, not his future. And she was just as certain that she had probed an open, festering wound in his conscience.
Despite her professed indifference, Brynn did care deeply about how she was received by society. By the time Saturday arrived, she felt as if an army of butterflies had taken up residence in her stomach, for she knew she would be on trial at her first major public appearance.
The day of the garden party dawned bright with sunshine. At the appointed hour of two, she found Lucian awaiting her in the entrance hall.
His eyes followed her as she descended the grand staircase. There was nothing in her costume to earn his disapproval, Brynn knew; her high-waisted gown of pale jade jaconet, with a floral-patterned shawl draping her arms, was almost modest. Her hair was sedately tamed in a chignon, except for a few errant curls wisping at her temples, and mostly hidden by a jaunty, close-fitting hat adorned with knots of jade ribbon.
Brynn endured his inspection silently, mentally daring him to comment, but he merely offered her his arm in silence and escorted her to the waiting carriage.
Only when they were settled did she really notice Lucian’s appearance. He was dressed with his usual damn-your-eyes elegance in a blue coat and buff breeches, and his striking features were so handsome that she found it hard to catch her breath in such close quarters with him.
There was little conversation between them at first, until Lucian bestirred himself to tell her about the guests she was likely to meet, particularly his many relatives. He had more than a dozen cousins in London alone.
Brynn found her curiosity aroused, despite her resolve to keep their relationship impersonal. “Raven says your favorite cousin isn’t even English.”
Lucian’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “No, Nicholas Sabine is American. He was here in England this past summer, in disguise.”